Drawing the Line
by EmbracingYourFreak
Summary: A British soldier is diagnosed with tuberculosis during the chaos of the second world war. In the understaffed and war-weary English hospital, he and a volunteer physician from America find comfort in each other.
1. Chapter 1

A _huge_ thank you to Tamer Lorika for being a fabulous beta for this fic! I really appreciate it!

_--_

_Keep running. Keep your feet moving. _

Just an intricate game of hide-and-go-seek - that's all this is. Swerve about the lorry caught aflame, billowing great black clouds into a sky already deadened by the relentless smog; ignore the mangled body of a fallen comrade that has long since stilled. _(The acrid stench is just a small detail in the vast fields of playing ground and there is no room for emotional displays for the players whom have been found.)_ Take a left at the sharp whistle of stray shrapnel whizzing just shy of your jaw; concentrate with every fibre of your being and jump - _dive _- behind the haven of what was once a proud and majestic building, now reduced to little more than a massive pile of misshapen wood and plaster. _(The grounds will fight back if the seeker has anything to say about it, so be on guard and don't let yourself be caught.)_ Get up, ignore the screaming ache in your legs and grip your rifle closer to your breast.

_Keep running. Keep your feet moving. Keep playing._

Arthur knew the game well. It was coming up on the five-month mark since he'd joined in the play (_Or was it six?) _and he was hardly unscathed by the dire conditions he'd faced upon participating. Gruesome acts and heinous sights had ground away at the once brilliant emerald eyes, leaving a dulled, hollowed hue in their stead. Though his face was young, the haunted look behind those irises gave away the snatches of horrors that he strived to keep locked away - for his own benefit rather than others'. He had given witness to far too much in far too little time; it made his past twenty-two years of life seem a mere drop in the bucket in the face of a massive tidal wave of death and destruction and hurt.

Despite this, the eyes were still sharp; still calculating and ever-vigilant as they scanned the field before them. But any flicker of innocence that one might have had the privilege to see in them before his enlistment had bled and meshed into the muck and blood beneath his boots long ago.

But Arthur had caught snatches of hushed murmurs and hurried whispers in the trenches; stories of men in arms before him. Men that were sentenced to the torture of the death and destruction of combat to flicker behind their eyes like a never-ending film reel; men that threw caution and logic to the wayside in order to escape the reality that they had so willingly let themselves be led into. They were brutally wounded men and try as they might, no medic nor doctor could find a cure for their ailments. Countless had struggled to trace the steps that might have forced those unfortunate soldiers down the path of self-destruction, fearing for others who might be at risk of falling victim to the same future. Only one vague notation from fellow combat mates could be found as the common denominator.

"His eyes... they just died."

Thus the young man resolved to keep one bit of optimism in his life, if only a small thought to cling to in the nights where his thoughts were particularly muddled with the fear and confusion and _exhaustion_ that the haunted images the field conditions forced upon him. He would not look at his situation as taking part in a war. After all, war had such a barbaric connotation; men fighting one another for the sake of power and greed, completely disregarding the well-being of fellow men. There was no comfort to be found when staring into the listless eyes of a body whose life slowly bled out in a steady flow of crimson into the dead grass below; only a cold, hollow feeling that settled in the pit of Arthur's stomach.

As the days wore on, a deep, boiling self-loathing began to bubble in chest. The realization had settled - he was taking young men's lives (_Stolen it in the boy's prime!_) for the sake of patriotism and pride. So he braced his resolve and enveloped himself in a delusion. He was simply taking part in a game. Child's play, really. Two teams, both with the goal to seek out the other and, in turn, capture those that were found.

The fact that one was to stab the offending team member through the jugular artery with a bayonet and promptly follow with a bullet to the skull was irrelevant. Knowing that once you're found you will be left a mutilated shell in a ditch with no thought for your past, present, or future was inconsequential. And though Arthur knew these thoughts were false, _knew_ he was lying to himself in the worst ways, he was able to rest heavy lids that ached with fatigue under a little persuasion of a bottle of rum in a cold, sodden trench every few stormy nights.

"Kirkland, get the _bloody hell out of there!_"

Gnashing his teeth against the agonizing burn in his weary legs and the precarious slip of his boots across the mud, Arthur scrambled for the forest lining where his company was quickly falling back. He could hear the Messerschmitts' deafening machine guns rattling off above and shook with the tremors of the earth with the accompanying explosion of a tank returning fire. All around him men were screeching in pain and shock, collapsing due to a mortal wound or otherwise - _caught_. He clenched the rifle tighter in his hands; the soft squeak of leather gloves and the feel of creaking joints in his fingers grounded him, willed him not to be lost in the chaos. He couldn't afford to be. He _can't_ be found.

Another round of fire from a Messerschmitt boomed in a rapid beat, the bullets piercing the earth dangerously close to Arthur's sprinting form. Desperately trying to fight through the haze of agony lacing through his lungs, he careened his run to the right, willing the gunner of the plane to focus his ammunition elsewhere. A sharp metallic roar above announced that a propeller had been blown out; he vaguely registered the falling frame of a Spitfire in a magnificent display of brilliant yellows and reds against the violet-pink hues of a darkening sky. If he had the energy to spare, Arthur would have laughed at the impossible irony.

But there was no room for trivialities on the battlefield. Sight of his company was fading in the twilight as the sun lowered itself into the horizon. God knew that lack of light only added disorientation and panic to the already heady mix of pain and steadily depleting energy. Arthur flicked a tongue over chapped lips as he jumped over another body. He was well aware of his torch tucked away in his pack, but damned if he was going to use it out in the open. That would be giving the seeker far too much leverage; the safest route would be to keep together with his combat mates and make it back in numbers into the safety of darkness.

Another flash illuminated the grounds; a man's blood-curdling cry joined the chorus of noise in the midst of a gunshot. _As if the fucking Luftwaffes don't have us by the throats as it is._

As if on cue, a bullet whistled by his helmet from his right, nearly sending it toppling from his head from the forceful gust. He hurled himself behind the cover of a broken-down lorry, mounted his rifle to his shoulder and took a knee into a defensive crouch. The steel casing of the vehicle shuddered from the onslaught of bullets, a few managing to puncture through and continue into the broken land behind.

_One-Two. One-Two-Three-Four. One-Two-Three. One. One-Two-Three._

Arthur gritted his teeth. If the timing and frequency the rounds of ammunition hinted to anything, there were at least four players behind the guns. Hardly a fair advantage, but this game certainly wasn't known for its outstanding morals. Arthur bit his lip; he needed to focus. He didn't have the time needed to sit and draw precise calculations - he needed to move, and quickly. He gave a last lingering look to the sky and set his jaw. It was dark enough to where he'd have a bit of stealth on his side; a far cry from running in broad daylight. Shrugging the butt of his rifle back to its place between the crook of his elbow and side and catching the barrel in a tight grip, he took off at a sprint.

Shapes passed by in a blur as he ran and a rapid succession of gunfire followed him. His lungs and legs screamed all the while, but he continued on, diving behind what cover he could find in the remains of the outskirts of the town. The trees that bordered the edge of the forest were so close; if he could just make _one last _mad dash, it would be little more than a few metres to safety. But a nauseating dizziness was settling in, making every movement a battle to maintain balance and coordination.

_Almost, almost!_ He held desperately to the thought, clinging to it as he pleaded his feet to carry him faster. But his body had other plans as the ache in his lungs flared with a vengeance, causing a hitch in his breath and a lurch in his stomach at the sheer _pain_.

He gave a sputtering cough that sent him reeling in agony. _What's wrong with me?_ The pain in his chest had never reached anywhere near this magnitude before - it was usually little more than a dull ache with the accompanying wet cough - a mere cold, he assumed. But as he pushed onward, the coughs racked his body, shaking him to the very core from the force and filling his mouth with an unpleasant mixture of phlegm and blood.

With every step he took he could feel a weakness seeping into his muscles, coaxing them into a forced state of relaxation as he struggled on. Sweat poured down his furrowed brow and into his eyes, his matted blond hair slicked down with the perspiration and grease and mud, but he could _see_ them - he could see his mates in the clearing, waiting and he was _there_, in a blur of loud cheers and hands clapping his back and it was simply _too much -_

Arthur fell forward with a choked sob and collapsed into slick grass below him, a hacking cough ripping through his raw throat. He was dimly aware of the sounds of alarm from those hovering over him, but there was simply too much _hurt_ for him to care as blood and mucus oozed from him lips. Someone turned him over and called his name. He dearly wanted to tell them he heard and understood; that he was really alright, he just needed a minute. But the blackness was swelling and clotting his vision at a disconcerting pace and his tongue felt too thick and heavy to formulate any words. Giving one last rattling cough, he allowed the darkness and exhaustion to claim his senses and knew no more.


	2. Chapter 2

There was an incessant amount of noise.

The soft clicks beating a steady rhythm out upon tile were the first to penetrate through the void of Arthur's consciousness. Constant, _unbearable_ clicks that steadily amplified until they were positively _throbbing_ in his ears with a relentless monotony. Mumbles of gibberish floated on a hushed undercurrent, filtering through with just enough volume to drive a barb of annoyance into the already piercing pain. The whisper of cloth rustling, rough scrapes of metal against metal, an _awful_ screech of a hinge that was long past due for oiling, crisp scritching of a pen against paper - Arthur clawed through the haze to find something, _anything_ remotely coherent in the confines of black and heaviness and _noise_.

"Mr. Kirkland?" A kind, feminine voice wafted into the symphony; it would have been comforting were it not for the reeling agony that pounded away at his skull. "Mr. Kirkland, can you hear me?"

Arthur tried to assure her that he could indeed hear her and wondered if she would be be so kind as to _stop the infernal racket_, but the command did not reach his lips. He instead gave a strangled groan which, in turn, triggered a coughing spell that ripped away at aggravated tissue. He tasted phlegm and blood and _dear God,_ did it hurt; suddenly the ache in his head wasn't quite as unbearable as the invisible hot pokers stabbing at his lungs. He vaguely registered gentle hands shifting behind his back, lifting him into a position that wasn't quite upright, but eased the pressure of the disgusting concoction from his windpipe. A cold metal edge pressed just below his lower lip.

"Spit it out, dear," the voice soothed, and he complied. A sickening slosh of liquid against the bottom of an empty basin followed. The coughing continued, prompting him to spit twice more before he fell into a quiet of rasping gasps and trembling limbs. "There you go. It wouldn't do for you to choke on the vile stuff."

He managed a croaking of thanks without another fit; he could have wept with relief. The steady hands lowered him onto his back.

"Should you need anything else, the staff is making rounds." A slight nod gave his assent. The click-clacks of retreating feet left him in silence.

As he settled into starched cloth and sturdy cushioning, something close to clarity began to sift through the fog of confusion and pain. The weight that pressed at his lids began to lift and Arthur cracked them tentatively open to slits. He immediately cursed his curiosity. The light that assaulted his vision was blinding; he hissed and turned his head sharply to the side, burrowing the right of his face into a pillow and cinched his eyes shut once more. There was simply too much to take in at once; Arthur clutched at the sheets, willing the whirling sensation that seemed to rock and pull at his body in something very much like spinning about in a circle too fast to leave his poor, addled mind be. He nearly cried out as a bubbling nausea pushed burning, _horrible_ acid to slither up his esophagus until it was pooling in the back of his throat and spilling from his mouth in one _excruciating_ jerking motion.

Tears gathered at the tips of lashes at the horrid convulsions, and a burning shame lapped at his heaving abdomen as a few trickled down his cheeks. For such weakness to unearth itself _now_ of all times was nothing short of pathetic. He was ill - hardly a cause for fuss and melodramatic displays. He had been in the wake of horrors that chalked this experience to little more than a minor hindrance in the grand scheme of torture. Men had writhed before his eyes in the stones and dust of battle as flames cracked and seared flesh into blackened, bleeding masses of muscle tissue. They knew the quality of pain; they knew the penalties of mortality. For him to break down now was simply disrespectful to their name.

"Easy, fellah."

This voice was sharp and nasal - American, his weary brain supplied. Calloused fingers stroked at clammy flesh and lifted his head from the now sopping downy pillow. The echoing splash of stomach contents against metal ensued and Arthur just wanted to rest, just wanted to _stop_ because he was tired and his body _ached_. He finished with a strangled sob and fell lax in the tender care of the other, breathing shallowly into heated skin and shaking violently with the tremors of taxed muscles.

"Penicillin does that." The man was so calm, the essence of the tone so warm as it thrummed against his flesh. Arthur wanted to nestle into the warmth and sleep for decades. "I'd like to say that it'll get better, but you can never tell when it comes to that stuff."

Again the question itched at the tip of his tongue.

"What's wrong with me?" His voice was hoarse and dry and _disgusting_.

There was a pause that ticked by for what felt like hours. His head was lowered into fresh sheets and a cool cloth dabbed at his face that was soaked with his own sick. Mortification clogged his throat.

"You have tuberculosis." Sadness tinged the words, but it did nothing for the iciness that settled in Arthur's chest. His mind went blank.

"We're doing everything we can to stem the bacteria, but nothing's a guarantee," the man continued on; Arthur hardly heard him. "With all the added stress of battle, it's managed to spread through your lungs faster than it would normally."

He could think of no suitable response. He stayed silent, counting the heavy beats of his heart.

"But, again, we're doing everything we can. If your body responds well to treatment, the pain won't be quite so bad." The cloth was removed.

Something snapped. Arthur could have sworn that it was audible, that the distinct crack dealt to his sanity echoed throughout the room with the heavy finality. He was sure the speech was meant to bring comfort, but it did nothing to ease the sudden surge of boiling rage that laced through his veins, spurring his hands into a clenched and trembling _fury_. His eyes snapped open on their own accord, too wild and too bright to be completely coherent. He stared into the vivd azure that met them head-on; they were alight with alarm and something despicably akin to pity. His vision blotted red.

"The pain won't be _quite so bad_, you say." Venom dripped from every syllable. Arthur shook. "Indeed, that _is_ a notion that merits celebration. I daresay I should be positively jumping with glee at the idea."

The blue eyes did not falter from their gaze, but slowly drained into a muted, clouded tint of muddied blue as the emotion drained and a wall carefully raised itself. It was a practiced look; of that, Arthur was sure. The face that radiated youth was drawn and worn from sleepless nights and stress, but there was a hopeful nature that hummed with ardor and energy beneath the external visage of a doctor's coat splattered with blood and the pale flesh of an exhausted and underfed body. It was strong and tender and _so genuine_. Arthur wanted to cling to it almost as much as he wanted to destroy it.

"You think the world is a bottled ray of sunshine; that there's always a silver lining at the end of the _bloody fucking tunnel_."

Green eyes flared with a crazed glint of loathing that was every bit directed at himself as it was the young man before him.

"Sometimes there _is_ no a happy ending in store for the protagonist of the story. Sometimes you need to come to terms with the reality that _there will be suffering in the world_."

His voice raised an octave and his breathing shallowed as he entered full-fledged hysteria, but his mouth worked on its own and spouted glimpses of conversations and last words whispered upon a friend's deathbed in a constant, frenzied train of thought. He didn't feel the fingers that trailed across his whitened knuckles or the words that attempted to soothe the delirium that rattled his teeth and drew blood from the biting nails on his palm. Only the shrieks of men and stench of death and visions of limbs being torn and rent apart graced his senses. _Bombs exploding, smoke choking, screams sounding, heart pounding_ -

And all at once his head cleared. He looked up into those eyes and was bombarded by the urge to rip them from their sockets. Nothing so beautiful should exist; it would only be sullied by the ugliness of the world. As aware as he was of the morbidity of the statement, he was no less convinced of its acuity.

"Get out."

"Mr. Kirkland -"

"_Get out!_"

A heavy silence settled in the air. After several beats, the younger gave in with a sigh.

"My name is Alfred Jones. Let a nurse know if you need me." He gave a particularly calculating look before he turned to the doorway. "I'll be back to check your vitals later."

The door creaked shut with a tiny click.

Muffled voices traveled between the barrier.

Cries rose from the floor.

Arthur sobbed alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur dearly wished to breathe.

He wished to taste the fresh bite of air on his tongue and not be afraid of choking on it, prompting new bouts of blood and pain and dizziness. He wished to speak easily with a throat that wasn't scarred and sore from frequent vomiting and relentless coughs that rattled his body with each torturous heave. He wished to tell his body that it was being foolish; to _stop_ the useless tremors that ran through his limbs and kept sleep at bay on nights where he craved for nothing more than the sweet envelopment of unconsciousness. He wished his stomach to be able to hold its own and not reject the food that was served within a few hours' time, causing the pain to _magnify_ and his head to _reel_.

And as much as he wished and wept and _wanted_, he knew there was no one there to grant the pleas.

So after a week of being in the care of sterilized needles and probing hands, Arthur settled into a routine of staring at whitewashed walls between bouts of sick and agony, watching memories of happiness and laughter flicker on the surface through the projector of his mind. He would lose himself in the small joys that he took for granted at their occurrence; a fresh gust of wind in a late autumn afternoon, or the feel of rain cleansing his flesh in an unexpected London shower. They seemed like such trivialities at the time, but as one day began to meld into the next, Arthur could taste the bitter tang of desperation to experience them once more.

"Time for your nightly dosage of penicillin, Mr. Kirkland."

A harsh American accent ripped through his reminiscences, leaving his eyes wide and fists clenching at the sheets below him as he started. He jerked his head toward the familiar sight of a white lab coat and lustrous blonde hair. The presence of this man had been nearly constant since the beginning of Arthur's stay; he was presented his medicines and meals with a brilliant smile, the young doctor helping him into a comfortable sitting position and cleaned the filth of vomit and bloodied lung tissue that clung to his lips and bedding after.

The result of such tender care was a feud of emotion that had since waged within Arthur. Each touch upon his body sent simultaneous soothing ripples that hummed pleasantly through each nerve, coaxing his muscles into a lax state of contentment and an _awful_ scream in his head that tore at his mind and crushed his fingers into painful fists. The conflicting states of mind battled for control, only adding to the wears upon his body.

"Can it wait?" he sighed, trying to calm the tremors in his hands. "I'd rather not have it now. I still feel a bit ill from the earlier injection."

"Sorry, but penicillin is a pretty strict when it comes to the timing of the dosing. I need to be as near exact as possible to the times I administer it." Lips quirked into a small, apologetic smile.

"It can't wait five minutes?"

Blue irises twisted into a dark, rueful hue. "Something tells me that giving you the five minutes won't do a thing for whether or not you're ready."

Sickening, audible pops of grinding teeth grated into the pleasant hush of the room, leaving behind a palpable air of tension. Neither body moved.

"Will you not leave me a _shred_ of dignity?" Arthur's voice strained and cracked, but he held his indignant scowl with the bottomless azure that peered back at him.

"I know this isn't exactly the most comfortable way of receiving medicine," the calm, almost carefree lilt in the man's voice both lulled and clawed at Arthur's nerves, "but it's the fastest way to get this stuff into your bloodstream."

Arthur's lip curled into a sneer. "I highly doubt my _arse_ is a prime location for an injection."

"You'd be surprised!" Blue eyes twinkled with unvoiced laughter and Arthur's heart thumped just a bit faster. "It's one of the best injection sites because of its muscle mass. The more muscle, the faster it's pumped through the body."

"It certainly doesn't make it any less humiliating," he murmured, his cheeks heating and eyes shifting to the impeccable white of the tile.

There was a hesitancy that took over the younger man at those words, but Arthur didn't dare look up. His entire body was shaking with self-deprecation and the _vulnerability_ of it all made him hot and itchy with prickles of mortification. He wanted to scream when a large hand covered his tightly clenched fist.

"I know this illness is hard on you."

Arthur's head snapped up and his mouth fell open to contest to the statement, to tell the young doctor he had _no bloody idea_ what it felt like, but he was cut off before he began.

"I may not know from experience, but I've seen too many men and women and _children_ struggle with disease to think anything else. I've lost so many patients since I've come to England; I've seen the fear in the eyes of a person coming face to face with death too many times."

A slight pause for breath spurred the warm hands to tighten over Arthur's trembling hand.

"I don't want to lose anyone else. And this - this can be avoided if you trust me. I know you're feeling embarrassed and I _know_ you just want to be left alone. But I can't let you accept something that doesn't have to happen. I won't let another patient die when I know there's something I can do to prevent it."

The room collapsed into a heavy silence. It weighed upon Arthur's chest with an excruciating force, nearly squeezing the breath from his lungs in the face of dazzling eyes that glittered with the brilliance of a midday sky. The iridescence of those glimmering orbs pulled at him, beckoning him closer with sweet promises and gentle whispers of something amazing and _wonderful_ -

He jerked his gaze to the opposite wall and rolled tentatively onto his side.

"Get on with it then." His voice was just shy of inaudible, but he could _feel_ the warmth of an ecstatic grin spreading across his back.

Heat flared beneath his flesh as the meager barrier of thin sheets were eased away, pushed tentatively to bunch at the slope of his hip. There was a slight tinkering of glass upon metal, nearly noiseless in reality but thunderingly loud in the stark calm of the room. A fleeting breath of soft, warm fingers brushed along tender skin as it cleared the the hindering papery gown and Arthur tensed, waiting for the sharp bite of a needle as a steady hand braced itself against his hip. It came and went, but the hand lingered, giving a slight caress before drawing back to right the barriers it had disturbed.

"Done!" The youth smiled as he helped ease his patient back to his original position. The radiance of the smile was definitely _not_ mesmerizing, Arthur thought vehemently. "It wasn't that bad, right?"

"I suppose as far as injections go, it wasn't horrible," Arthur conceded, desperately trying to reason with his body that there was _no reason_ to be blushing now. The broadening of that infuriatingly _dazzling_ smile only seemed to spur his body into thinking the opposite, however. He scowled.

"That's probably the nicest thing that's come out of you since your entry, Mr. Kirkland." Arthur stammered out a stream of indignant retorts, but the doctor simply smiled in response.

"I'm just glad, is all." Flustered words came to a screeching halt.

"Glad, you say?" the soldier managed around a suddenly very dry throat.

"Well, yeah." Bright, airy tones wove tendrils of calm into nerves that trembled with an apprehension and aggravation that Arthur couldn't explain, couldn't begin to _fathom_, leaving him odd with an odd sensation of being deeply sated and strung as taut as a bow. "You've been distant with the staff; sometimes downright rude," he continued on despite the sharp snort of dismissal. "I'm just happy you're warming up to us. We want to see you better, Mr. Kirkland, and attitude plays a decent part in recovery."

"There is no recovery for me, Doctor." A darkness chipped away at the edges of the statement, leaving the voice slightly hollow despite the attempt at neutrality.

"That may be," the younger agreed. "There isn't a definite cure for tuberculosis yet. But," and here the azure caught alight in flames, flickering with determination, "you can't let that get you so low you let down your defenses. I see you, Mr. Kirkland, staring off into nothing and just _sitting _letting the disease beat you down into nothing more than a shell. In a way I'm relieved to see you yell at me and the nurses; at least I can see that you're still _alive_."

Arthur suddenly felt too small under the searching gaze of the other, too vulnerable under earnest eyes and too _aware_ of himself in every possible way. He shrank back into the mattress, trying to sink into the stiff bedding below and melt into the fibres of the fabric, become nothing more than tiny bits of cloth in the face of such blatant passion. And yet something boiled in the pit of his stomach, rolling with every word and building, festering, _tearing._

"Why did you come to England?"

A slightly shocked air bled into the room at the abrupt turn of conversation, settling itself over the two occupants like a thick film of transparent, viscous material. Blue eyes darkened slightly.

"To help people." It was a simple answer that was much too cliche for Arthur's liking.

"There has to be a specific reason why you came," he beseeched, the fire boiling, boiling, _boiling._ "America is in a neutral state; there's no logical reason for you to be here." He stared into the void of blue eyes. "Unless it's a personal endeavor."

"I want to be a hero." The voice was quiet, but eyes held steady.

And suddenly the boiling reached its limit; it burst forth, sending a searing fire that blazed through his veins, ripping through his esophagus and spewing from his lips.

"Hero?" That single word trembled with a raw emotion that Arthur couldn't place, couldn't label, _couldn't handle_ and he was gasping for breath under its power. "You want to be a hero? How very_ American_. To come in and believe you can fix the problems of the world with sheer _wants_ and _dreams_ -"

His lungs quivered under the vehemence of his storm, caving and sending waves of pure _agony _that spiraled and spiked through his body and made him quake with great, heaving coughs. He was vaguely aware of the strong arm that hoisted him into a sitting position or the gentle words that were murmured as the familiar metal of the basin was pressed to his chin. One mouthful of revolting lung tissue concoction splattered to the bottom, promptly followed by another and a bout of sick from the strain.

He sobbed as he neared the end of his torture, his body quivering and a fresh sheen of sweat clung to his brow. A cool cloth swept across his face and he moaned, reveling in the sensation of cold moisture contrasting with his fevered flesh as he lowered back.

"Maybe you should ease off laying into me for a while, fellah," the doctor mumbled, replacing the cloth and smoothing back damp blonde locks.

Arthur groaned, turning blindly into the tender touch.

"And just so you know," the tone was low but nonetheless kind in the ears of the exhausted soldier, "I realize there's no such thing as a hero. There's no one around these days that will put everything on the line for a complete stranger and expect nothing in return. People are greedy by nature; to believe in something like a hero would be pretty ignorant.

"But I don't care." Fingers twitched against flesh before they drew back. "I may not be able to help everyone or stop world suffering," he paused, "but I'll do what I can to help the people that need it where I can reach. England needs help more than the States, so I hitched a ride over. It was the right thing to do in my head, and I'm sticking to my decision."

Suddenly the boiling seemed insignificant in the face of the doctor's words; it quickly settled to a distant ache. Arthur met the waiting azure gaze with a contrite smile.

"How was the world lucky enough to gain such a tenacious inhabitant?" he croaked with reedy breath and shallow jerks of shoulders trying to contain a softer set of coughs.

"Believe me, the earth didn't consider itself lucky in the beginning." A hard edge bit at the soft words, but the hands that slipped beneath Arthur were gentle as they lifted and prompted him to spit once more.

"I sincerely doubt that, Doctor Jones," Arthur wheezed, hands gripping sturdy arms as he was lowered once again. Blue eyes _gleamed_.

"Call me Alfred."


End file.
